


Theft

by linguamortua



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anger, Body Horror, Bucky Barnes-centric, Bureaucracy, Captivity, Gen, Memory Loss, Non-Canonical Character Death, Not Canon Compliant, SHIELD, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2015-08-11
Packaged: 2018-03-25 19:07:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 8,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3821533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linguamortua/pseuds/linguamortua
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They have stolen his arm. They have stolen his memories. They have stolen his freedom, and he will tear apart their cage and kill them all and take himself back, or he will die in the attempt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cage

**Author's Note:**

> I'm writing this on the fly. Expect rage, trauma and the gratuitous application of extremely satisfying violence. Tags will be added as the work progresses (or digresses, depending on the skill of the author).
> 
> You can add me [on Tumblr](http://lingua-mortua.tumblr.com/).

He comes around on a hard bed with unforgiving metal springs and a thin waterproof pad as a mattress. There is a faint smell of industrial cleaner and his own sour sweat in the air. He checks for pain and finds it in dull, full-body muscular aches and a nagging twinge behind the eyes. Feet are sweaty and sore from walking and running and hard impacts. Right knee has been jarred. Thighs and glutes are tense but uninjured. Ribs bruised but not broken, back tight, neck stiff. Right knuckles are scraped and blue. He makes the tiny, deliberate shoulder flex to clench his left fist and – nothing. He opens his eyes into dim lighting filtering through a metal mesh ceiling and looks to his left. His arm is gone. It is _gone_. 

He rolls upright onto the edge of the bed, casing the small metal cell. The door is featureless with heavy, covered hinges and a small hatch at waist height. There is a metal bowl of a toilet and a drinking fountain placed disgustingly above it. There is nothing else. He has been caged like a beast. Where is he? Where is his arm? Why is there no memory of before? The body aches like running or climbing or fighting; the hurts indicate the predictable contact points of hand-to-hand combat. He is wearing loose, grey pants of some synthetic material, no shirt, no shoes. Something antiseptic has been applied to parts of his skin. People have touched him, manipulated his body, disassembled him. His tongue flickers over his lips, dry and warm and split from a punch or a fall.

He drinks as much flat, metallic water as he can stomach from the fountain on the wall. He looks for cameras and sees a tiny, black eye above the door; his metal arm could crush it. God, he wants his arm back. He calculates the chances of breaking through the door. Minimal. He will have to wait for careless or weakness to escape his cage. Now that he is awake, they will come soon. He pisses dark and dehydrated yellow and goes to lie back on the bed.

Within the hour they come, a muscular young blond with a serious face and a balding, middle-aged man in a square-cut suit. The younger man says nothing and the older is polite and reserved. Suit smiles at him affably and ask bullshit questions like _name_ and _handler_ and _hydra_ to which there are no answers. He stares back with dull resentment. Something within him catalogues the minor changes in facial expression and posture and clothing in the two men. Suit repeats _name_ and _handler_ and _hydra_ several times, sometimes phrasing the questions differently, while Muscles stands by the door like a golem and frowns in a way that indicates displeasure rather than anger. _Name_ and _handler_ and _hydra_ are impossible to answer, and why do they ask questions when they have already stolen his mind? Eventually he tires of glaring and spits _fuck you, fuck you, give me my arm_. They leave, Suit shrugging enigmatically. Later there is a metal plate of nutritionally adequate food, a shuffling of changing guards in the corridor, and the flat, stale silence of night.

At first they try boredom, letting his days and nights be dictated by identical breakfasts, lunches and dinners. He eats each little compartment empty before moving on to the next, licking off the utensil after every bite. Once a day, before dinner, a bowl of warm water and a cloth and towel are provided and he cleans his body bit by bit, stretching out the process for something to do. The bowl and cloths are removed with the dinner tray by anonymous male hands. In between meals he lies on the bed, scanning how his body feels and thinking about his arm, his beautiful arm. Or he uses the metal bed frame as a prop, pulling up his body weight or dipping himself to the floor. He does push-ups and lunges, stretches out each muscle group, hinges at the hips and presses his palm to the ground to stay limber. Muscles and Suit appear every morning after breakfast and ask _name-handler-hydra_. He lies on the bed with his eyes closed and ignores them, or tells them to get fucked or choke or die, depending on the day. On morning number six, their seventh visit, Suit sighs and hunkers down by the bed.

‘These conversations are less productive than I’d like,’ Suit says like a schoolmaster. ‘The only person keeping you in here is yourself.’

He cracks open his eyes and sneers back. Over by the door, Muscles clears his throat.

‘Sir, if I could talk to him…’

‘Request denied,’ Suit says pleasantly. ‘Trust the system.’ He turns back towards the bed. ‘Two floors above us is a very commodious low-security level. If you cooperate, there’s no reason you can’t be moved. You’re hardly a threat, in your current state.’ Suit’s eyes flick insultingly towards the bare stump of shoulder.

‘How ‘bout I tear your tiny dick off with my flesh arm and we have another chat about _threat_ ,’ he replies venomously. ‘Fuckin’ bunch of liars.’

Suit sighs as if mildly inconvenienced by a minor clerical error.

‘I’ve been very candid with you,’ Suit says, _lying_ , ‘I’m just asking you to be honest with me in return.’

‘You stole my arm,’ he hisses, rolling up to sit on the bed, ‘You stole my arm and and I don’t have a name, you _caged_ me and then you feed me bullshit about _candid_.’ He pauses to suck in breath through his teeth, feels himself smile in a feral way.

‘The arm is a weapon,’ Suit replies calmly, as if he isn’t a weasel and a thief and a liar. ‘It’s currently being studied to determine its capabilities. We could arrange a replacement prosthetic.’

His smile becomes a laugh, bubbling up through his gritted teeth. He leans in close to Suit until their faces are almost touching, and Muscles takes a protective step towards them.

‘Bring me one,’ he dares them, ‘And I’ll use it to pull out your fucking tongue.’ He tries to stifle the laugh but it keeps coming until he’s breathless. ‘And I’ll kill your bullshit guards and find my arm and take it back, and then,’ he turns to Muscles, ‘I’m going to pull your guts out and piss on them.’ Muscles pales and his mouth tightens slightly.

‘I find that last very unlikely,’ Suit says dryly, as if he’s secretly laughing. ‘There’s no need to be dramatic. You can leave the cell if you talk to us.’

‘I don’t have to say shit. Give me back my arm, then maybe I’ll answer your questions.’ He lies down again, puts his arm across his eyes and waits for them to leave.

As the door closes, he hears Muscles say, with a baffling hint of apology in his voice, ‘I think he’s scared and hiding something, sir. I don’t think he’s really serious. About the violence.’

He doesn’t hear Suit’s reply, but he thinks vengefully to himself _oh yes I am, buddy_ and he falls into a nap, dreaming hazily of grabbing Muscles by the face and pulling his jaw off with his metal arm with a satisfying crunch. As he dozes, his left shoulder twitches spasmodically, remembering the arm.


	2. Intel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It seems that chapters for this are going to be wildly varied in length and form. If you are the kind of reader who likes longer reads, might I suggest bookmarking and coming back when it's finished?

Nine days he exists in the metal room, nine tedious cycles of wake-eat-questions-eat-wash-eat-sleep. The meals change in colour and appearance but somehow always taste the same. The thin slices of meat are bland and chewy, the vegetables anaemic and overcooked. There is never anything sweet, except some mealy apple slices once. The minor hurts and aches faded by the end of the second day and now he is most concerned by losing his condition. If he is going to escape, he must be strong. He knows without trying that he could incapacitate Suit in a heartbeat, knows that even a man the size of Muscles would be easily beaten if he had his arm. He is better, he is more advanced. His wounds heal in hours; his body can withstand shocks and impacts that would kill an ordinary person. There will be many such ordinary people barring his way when he makes his escape, and he must be able to fight through them all to escape his captors.

The why of it all still eludes him. He spends the hours before sleep lying on the rustling waterproof mattress and letting his mind drift, floating through what he know in an attempt to recall data. A name would be a good start.There are some things that he knows. Fact: he is strong and fast and he knows how to fight like he knows how to breathe. Fact: he has many scars but no identifying birthmarks or tattoos. Fact: he can assess the threat levels of Suit and Muscles by their posture and facial expressions. Fact: if there was anything in this cell that could be fashioned into a weapon, he would have found it by now. That there is nothing, and that he is carefully being kept isolated from even guards, suggests that his captors fear him. Good. Suit talks about systems and protocols a lot. Government, maybe. Clearly not military, although Muscles looks like a former grunt. They have been careful not to let him see a uniform, from which he infers that he may have encountered them before. Somehow, the prospect of being familiar with shadowy government agencies does not seem outrageous to him. Curious. What he needs more than anything is information on these goons. Suit isn’t going to give him anything easily; despite his calm demeanour and his wry smiles he’s obviously in charge of things around here. Muscles looks the obedient soldier type but his defence of a prisoner is a strange anomaly. Why would Muscles assume he wasn’t intending to fight his way out of here? Why would he interpret silence and threats as fear?

He broods for a while on the morning of the tenth day, staring at the ceiling. His right hand plays at the stump of his shoulder, rubbing at the gnarled scar tissue and the squared-off nubs of metal that should be anchoring his arm. Under the skin, he knows, long tendrils of some high-tech material suture the arm anchors to his nerves. Somewhere in his shoulder, fine metal mesh wraps everything together and prevents connective tissue from tearing. There is a tiny, savage comfort in knowing that they have not stolen everything. When he finds his arm, he will pick it up and press the shoulder casing home and feel the tingle of connected nerves. He will twist the wrist in the prescribed sequence and tiny motors will buzz and it will activate and be part of him once more. He will use it to break free.

What he needs is intel, opportunity and a weapon, in that order. The weaponry – the arm, his stolen arm – is what he wants most of all, but that will have to wait. The opportunity he can’t predict. That leaves information. If these guys were desperate for something they’d surely be torturing it out of him already. They took his memories, they’ve wiped him like a clean slate, so they can’t possibly want intel from him. _It’s the arm_ , he thinks. It’s locked to him. He could unlock it and let them discover its powerful secrets, but of course he won’t. The questions must be a front. He contemplates Suit’s polite queries, his unthreatening presence, his receding hairline. The meals and the wash water delivered daily, as if in scrupulous adherence to some code of ethics. Do they want him to trust them? They must. It is the only conclusion he can draw, that they’re trying to induce some kind of cooperation. He imagines sitting up on the bed, relaxing his face out of its habitual glare as his captors drone on with their impossible questions. He thinks about little, human ways of connecting, and the thought of holding a conversation with them makes bile rise up in his throat but he keeps trying out lines (lies) in his head. He must manufacture an opportunity, and for that he must be moved, furnished with tools or permitted contact with other people. He can do it. He can do it, if it means getting his arm back.

 _I told Suit I’d tear his dick off_ , he ponders with a frown. _I should probably tone it down_.


	3. S.H.I.E.L.D. archival services, excerpts from file 'BARNES, J.B.', documents 2 – 4 Oct 2013

_Combat report #CAP-11928-BAT: ROGERS, S.G., 3 Oct 2013_

_Date of action:_ 2 October 2013

_Location:_ Stackhouse Park, Johnstown, PA, 40.316715, -78.940747.

_S.H.I.E.L.D personnel present [in order of clearance]:_ COULSON, P. J., HILL, M., ROMANOFF, N. A., ROGERS, S.G., members of assault teams 2  & 3.

 

\- arrived in Johnstown by helicopter 19 30h to investigate intel suggesting HYDRA safehouse in park

\- proceeded on foot with Agent Romanoff to investigate safehouse

\- safehouse turned out to be a gardening shed

\- we were subsequently ambushed by Bucky Barnes aka the Winter Soldier and called for back-up at 20 44h

\- Agents Coulson and Hill responded from the helicopter and assault teams were called in

\- we made a wide perimeter and kept the target moving

\- assault teams 2 and 3 arrived at approximately 21 20h and deployed around established perimeter

\- we then began to tighten inwards with the aim of a non-lethal capture

\- all 4 members of assault team two were killed or mortally wounded by sniper fire as they moved in from the south

\- assault team three and Agents Coulson and Hill were able to occupy the target while I covered  Agent Romanoff and she subdued him with tranquilizer darts

\- Agent Hill’s assessment that I was reluctant to move in with so many armed personnel is accurate. I would have preferred to attempt to engage the target personally. In this instance I accept that her judgement was correct.

 

* * *

 

_Internal memo #DC-289780-L6_

To: COULSON, P. J.

From: ROGERS, S.G.

Date: 3 Oct 2013

Subject: Can I see him?

 

* * *

 

_Internal memo #DC-228088-L6_

To: COULSON, P. J.

From: ROGERS, S.G.

Date: 3 Oct 2013

Subject: Are you in the office??

 

* * *

 

_Internal memo #DC-947937-L6_

 

To: COULSON, P. J.

From: ROGERS, S.G.

Date: 3 Oct 2013

Subject: URGENT: security matter please respond

 

* * *

 

  _Internal memo #DC-878322-L9_

To: ROGERS, S.G.

From: COULSON, P. J.

Date: 3 Oct 2013

Subject: Patience is a virtue

 

* * *

 

_Preliminary intake report #COU-56540-SEC: BARNES, J. B., 4 Oct 2013_

**Case agent:** COULSON, P. J.

Initial medical assessment (see attached document #MED-22531) showed minor contusions from combat, minor malnutrition. Evidence of prior GSWs and broken bones, some incorrectly set: Dr. Han posits this to be from substandard field treatment consistent with usual activity of a solo operative. Of particular strategic importance, the metal prosthesis was discovered to be more complex than previously believed. Much of the left shoulder has been rebuilt using high-grade polymer webbing and titanium pins to support the arm. Moulds were taken for study purposes and to aid the customisation of a replacement prosthesis at a later date.

Initial psychological assessment (see attached document #MED-72878A) made problematic by prior history. Barnes was uncooperative whenever questioned. Assessment marked by hostility as well as the usual level of confusion following tranquilizers. No traumatic brain injury or evidence of concussion, an absence believed to be the result of increased strength and physical resilience due to serum application. He was able to rapidly identify moving targets, assemble replica firearms, competently use contemporary technology and recognise modern-day signage, indicating intact procedural memory. Dr. Annauth does not at this stage suspect any broader memory loss; rather, he shows behaviours similar to agents under enemy interrogation.

First interview with Barnes 3 October, 10 00h. Present: COULSON, P. J., ROGERS, S. G. (upon his own very insistent request). Usual protocol was followed re: concealing agent names, limiting exposure to personnel, offering no intel in conversation, etc. Questions were asked about his name, handler, known safehouses, and any contact with HYDRA. He was wholly uncooperative and verbally non-responsive, before finally responding with verbal abuse and a demand that we return his prosthesis. Interview was terminated 10 12h. Rogers suggested that his face might trigger recognition as upon previous contact (see battle report #CAP _-23928-BAT_ re: helicarrier debacle). This was not obviously the case, although naturally we cannot rule out the very real possibility that Barnes is concealing his reactions from us.

Preliminary recommendations: I suggest no aggressive questioning or change of personnel at this time. Current hypothesis that he is concealing information could be tested by constant camera monitoring and a steady routine to be observed for minor discrepancies. We should also look into a replacement prosthetic, but we should be very careful about materials, strength, etc. Recommend a ten-day holding pattern with regular interviews at this stage.


	4. Offerings

He wakes from unnamed horrors, sweating and mumbling himself into consciousness. He had not intended to sleep. His heartbeat thrums in his ears and his left shoulder tenses and flexes wildly, trying to control the arm that is no longer there. There were people chasing him. There was pain. There were monsters with long metal teeth, bright lights and screeching and taunting. There was sweat and blood and dirt under the fingernails. A hundred hands, grabbing and squeezing and pulling and pinching. He was torn apart and rebuilt and everything was taken from him and returned a thousand times. There was... his shoulder flexes helplessly. Of all the features of his nightmare's hellscape, the theft remains. He remembers the little camera above his cell door and wills himself still and impassive. Early on he considered moulding over it with pieces of the papery tissue by the toilet bowl and water from the fountain. He is retaining that option, for when he needs them to come running. He swings off the bed into a long, deep hamstring stretch, rocking from side to side on the balls of his feet. Carefully and methodically, he moves through each muscle group in turn, rolling his joints and breathing into his belly. For some reason, even confined to this small, square space with its unforgiving plastic floors and metal walls, the ability to move his body to its fullest capacity feels like freedom for the briefest moment. He thinks about boxes and cupboards and coffins and shudders internally.

Another futile exploration of the cell does nothing to assuage his tension; the feeling of constraint persists in a way that transcends the physical. There is something about containment that lurks in his subconscious, some malicious remnant of what has been taken from him. The unease it gives him is palpable. His inability to trust his own mind is particularly disconcerting given that he knows that he could count off the minutes until Suit and Muscles show up, despite the fact that he has been sleeping. He knows the time like he knows his own strength. (He does not know his face, and the lack of a mirror is both an annoyance and a relief. He can see dark hair framing his face but he has no sense of his own appearance.)  It is mid-morning on the tenth day, and any minute now the door is going to open, with tumblers clanking in the metal.

Two minutes later, the silence is broken by the door. As expected.

Suit is alone today. The thrill of the change is both exciting and concerning. He has his suspicions about the other man, blonde Muscles and the body that he knows is less breakable than he had expected when... his unremarkable jailer enters, closing the door with the flat of his right hand. They regard one another for a moment, before Suit breaks eye contact. He holds a thin manila folder under his left arm, pressing it to his side with his characteristic stiff, unthreatening posture.

‘Good morning,’ says Suit affably. He brushes at his thinning hair and crosses the room to lean on the opposite wall. His prisoner sits on the bed with ankles crossed and palms flat on thighs (wonders how to arrange his face into the right configuration).

‘Hello.’

‘Ah, a friendly word.’ Suit’s smile is ironic but not unkind. ‘And here I thought we would never get along.’ He taps his fingers against the file briefly. ‘I have something for you today.’

 _Give my arm back, you sly little motherfucker_.

Suit opens the file carefully into one hand. The pages are loose; the little metal tag that should hold everything together has prudently been removed. _They’re frightened of me, and with good reason_. Suit flips through some of the pages, showing him how much information is contained in between his blunt-fingered hands. A lot of the file is redacted, crossed through in thick black pen which bleeds through the photocopies.

‘This is your file. Well,’ Suit corrects himself, ‘In point of fact, it’s part of your file. We have quite a lot on you, but these pages are relevant to us right now.’ He folds it closed and hands it over; neither man has to step closer at all, the cell is so narrow.

He opens the file onto the bed. No names, no dates, no agency or corporate logos, no signatures, no coordinates or locations. He skim-reads quickly, processing everything without conscious effort. He doesn’t need context to know that he’s reading part of the records kept since his capture. Specifically, it’s the result of physicals; shoulder photos and scans, images of a plaster stump moulding, x-rays. He remembers precisely none of it taking place, so he was probably still sedated. He grinds his teeth a little. At the back of the file, two paltry pages require closer inspection. One is half a page of text, the other a schematic for a replacement arm. It’s a pathetic thing, made of a soft plastic with no bionics or armour or sophisticated anchoring system; it’s nothing more than a cosmetic piece with a claw-like hand attached. It is ugly. He immediately hates the moulded fingernails and the gently bent elbow and the peach-pink skin.

‘We can have that made very quickly,’ Suit says, watching him read. ‘A matter of 24 hours. We have all the information we need.’

‘Why,’ he says in a monotone.

‘It has been decided that it would be more conducive to your wellbeing and psychological state to have a new prosthesis,’ says Suit smoothly. There’s a long, diplomatic silence and then, so delicately, Suit leans forward a touch and says, ‘You would have to visit the medical bay for a final fitting, but I’m sure that could be arranged.’ So tactful, he thinks; if it isn’t too much trouble, sir, perhaps we could entice you out of your cage?

He closes the folder slowly, as if he’s thinking about it, and hands it back across the room without looking. Suit waits for a response, and all he gives him is a shrug. It’s a wiser option than launching himself across the room and shoving that folder down his goddamn throat, although infinitely less satisfying.

‘I’ll let you give it some thought.’ Suit stands away from the wall, adjusts his sleeves and tucks the file back under his left arm. He raises his other hand to tap the door and be let out, back into the real world like a real person.

‘Where is the blond man?’ He doesn’t know how to introduce the question, to soften it, so his question hangs flat and heavy in the air. Suit half-turns back from the door and looks at him levelly, but his lower eyelids twitch briefly in a way which screams _jackpot_.

‘He was unavailable.’

‘What is his purpose?’ There is a long pause that says _lie incoming_.

‘Security,’ Suit tells him firmly. He sneers back at Suit, then reins it in a little, remembering _you want this man to like you, to trust you_.

‘He knows a lot for security,’ he says, not wanting to look naïve. He slides from the bed and walks over to Suit, standing with his bare feet almost touching the neatly-kept black leather of the man’s shoes. He is much taller, much heavier, but rather than looking intimidated, Suit gazes back at him in that infuriatingly placid way. He reaches out to Suit’s lapel and grasps a little pin shaped like a bird. It pops off the material easily, the pin back falling to the floor and rolling away. Behind the bird, exactly where he knew it would be, is a thin, black circle of plastic. ‘Sova Industries, government contract work, short-range listening device,’ he says. ‘Made for cents in China, a lot of noise when worn against fabric. Discreet, if your mark’s stupid.’ He turns it over in his fingers, shows Suit the back of the pin. ‘A half-inch pin can do some damage in the right hands.’

Suit stiffens almost imperceptibly, and his right hand turns a half-turn, ready to whip to the small of his back. He grins down at Suit, not bothering to hide his amusement. So convenient, to have verification that the man usually carries a gun. So helpful, to confirm that he is willing to use it. He holds the pin out and Suit proffers an upturned palm. He drops the pin, returns to the bed and lies down, crossing one leg over the other and closing his eyes. There’s a brief scuff of feet as Suit retrieves the pin back, and then the door is shut and he is alone again.

 _Terpeniye_ , he tells himself, liking the sound of the word. _Terpeniye, malchik_.


	5. Directives

‘What do you have for me, Phil?’

‘Less than I’d like, but two promising points.’

‘Only two?’

‘I’m rather good at what I do, but even I have my limits, you know. If you turn your attention to the reports…’

‘Give me the abridged version.’

‘He shows mild interest at the prospect of a replacement arm, but didn’t commit anything. He also asked after Rogers.’

‘Tell me how either of these are useful to me.’

‘The arm is a bargaining chip. I’ve been trying to gain his trust but that’s a tough ask when I’m not able to give him anything. He made conversation today, reached out to connect. Giving him something now will reinforce that behaviour and perhaps make him come around to me.’

‘I don’t like ‘perhaps,’ Phil. What about Rogers?’

‘Send him in. I don’t care what he says to the Soldier, I don’t care if he sings to him, but I think he’s our best chance of pulling out anything resembling useful information during this century.’

‘You see, that still sounds like a perhaps.’

‘All right; it’s a perhaps. There are no guarantees here because there isn’t a rulebook. There’s no precedent. I want Rogers to try – he’s the closest thing we’ve got to a qualified operative.’

‘I’m calling this. We can’t hold him indefinitely and keeping him here increases the chances of somebody talking.’

‘I need more time. He could still be a valuable resource, and Rogers swears there’s someone in there.’

‘Yeah? Maybe Rogers wants to try my job for one goddamn week.’

‘If anyone would know, it would be him. He is a significant part of the Soldier’s history.’

‘He’s a significant pain in my ass. He keeps sending me memos.’

‘Yes, he sends me memos, too. I’m happy to forward those on to you if you need more persuasion.’

‘You’re a wise ass.’

‘Yes, sir, that’s what you pay me for.’

‘Give me a best and a worst case scenario in the thirty seconds it’s going to take me to finish this coffee.’

‘Best case scenario, Rogers cracks him and we get names, locations, handlers, safe houses, medical procedures and our best chance to stamp out HYDRA. Worst case scenario, we keep him in a box for the rest of his natural life, or we remove him and risk Rogers running wild over it.’

‘You have a week. Now get out of my office.’


	6. A mental list of reasonable and unreasonable wants

The exquisite, jolting pain up the right arm when a punch hits home

Ten minutes in a soundproof room with the blond man unarmed

Food that is not small, pre-cut and piled into a plastic tray

A good knife with an arm sheath

Boots, black, size twelve

Silence in the brain

A hot shower

A radio

_Arm_


	7. Before

‘I want it,’ he says to Suit curtly when he arrives the next day. He doesn’t, doesn’t at all, but it is a potential avenue of escape. Suit’s face brightens into a pleasant smile, which he projects forward across the room as if it is a gift. He scowls back at Suit.

‘Good!’ Suit says cheerfully.

‘It’s subpar,’ he snaps back, unable to restrain himself. He feels his veneer dropping away but speaks anyway. ‘Practically functionless. But I’ll take it. Because…’ He shrugs his left shoulder meaningfully, missing the gentle whirr-and-click that would usually signal the motion. Missing the comforting metal weight and the pull of gravity across the pins in his back.

‘We would ideally like you to feel comfortable,’ says Suit mildly.

‘Tell me what happens,’ he demands. He has adopted a pose of quiet power, feet flat on the ground and right hand resting lightly on his thigh. The hard bed and his imbalanced posture has started to make his lower back ache, but he ignores it; it will go away soon. _He_ will go away soon.

‘I’ll put in a call and we’ll manufacture the prosthesis based on moulds we have of your shoulder. It’ll take two days. We’ll escort you up to the medical department – we’ll provide you with proper clothes and shoes, of course – and they’ll fit the arm. What happens after that is up to you.’

‘Up to me.’

‘An interview room and low security cell near the medical wing, or back here.’ The options hang in the air, and he has seen enough of Suit to know that he is telling the entire and unequivocal truth. He makes noises back, pays less attention than he should. The important thing, the most important thing, is that this little excursion provides him with an escape route. If it does not, he must think of how to manufacture one. Unknowingly, Suit has given him tiny scraps of information about the facility. Now he must work out how to use it. Suit goes away, eventually, and he lies down on the bed again. Bereft of any sort of entertainment, he spends a lot of time drowsing, letting himself fall into a strange, trance-like state where images emerge and blur and recede again, _ad infinitum_.

He falls asleep without meaning to, and is transported to a strange, cold, metallic place with looming figures moving about him. There is pain, because when he dreams there is always pain. There is the faint, rhythmic sound of a train, and icy tiles, and a persistent voice in his ear telling him the _why_. His left side burns and aches and flexes and suddenly he has the arm, it’s a part of him, and he makes a wild grab for wriggling prey and strikes home. Chemical oblivion claims him; he wakes on a rooftop; he wakes on a beach, clothes heavy with seawater; he wakes on a bridge; he wakes behind a sniper rifle or clutching a grenade or flipping a knife over in his palm. Every time, he flashes back to the cold, metallic place. Every time, they talk to him and alter him. Every time there are sharp arcs of electrical stabbing in his brain. He wonders in some corner of his subconscious if his captors did this. He wonders how they erased his memory. He remembers a face and jerks in his sleep. He remembers a city with tall buildings and pants his way through the streets, pushing aside faceless mannequins. He flashes from place to place, from weapon to weapon, from agony to agony.

When he wakes, sweating and tangled in the thin blanket, the ghost of a long-forgotten name lingers on the tip of his tongue.


	8. S.H.I.E.L.D. archival services, file BARNES, J.B., documents 15 Oct 2013.

_Security briefing #COU-53807-SEC, 15 Oct 2013 re: moving BARNES, J. B._

All corridors between A-wing in high security containment and the medical bay to be cleared of personnel for the duration of moving and fitting of prosthesis. Estimate ten minutes transit each way, one hour for fitting prosthesis.

Proposed route map is attached. Suggest locking down all other doors and elevators. If possible, moving Barnes by stairs would avoid any difficulties in confined spaces like elevators. We do not want a repeat of the STRIKE incident last year.

Medical to provide scrubs and rubber shoes for Barnes. No other clothing or accoutrements to be given to him.  

Barnes is disciplined, effective and resourceful both in close combat and at range. Recommend two full STRIKE teams at close quarters but outside of arm’s reach. Barnes should not be allowed in reach of a weapon if at all possible. He will be secured at wrist and ankle but as we saw in Detroit, this is not necessarily a guarantee of safety. Eight snipers should be deployed in a moving formation along each corridor, four in front and four behind. We should also consider arming guards with tranquilisers in case a quick, non-lethal takedown is needed.

Agents Romanoff and Barton would be a formidable addition as a floating team or on standby.

Also recommend having further personnel in the vicinity, to be called in if necessary.

Medical bay to be stripped of non-essential personnel. All medical staff present should be equipped with tranquilisers. Barnes to be secured before fitting begins and held for the duration. Medical staff to be advised of risks.

Addendum: recommend that Rogers, S. R. not be present for this operation. His emotional connection to Barnes makes him an exploitable weakness.

 

* * *

 

  _Internal memo #DC-9796332-L8_

 

To: COULSON, P. J.

From: FURY, N. J.

Date: 16 Oct 2013

Subject: #COU-53807-SEC status -  **approved**


	9. Sticking point

‘Snipers?’ Steve says loudly, waving a short memo in his left hand as he enters the room. ‘ _Eight_ snipers?’ His voice is on the edge of shouting, deep and resonant in his big chest. It’s uncomfortable on the ears.

‘It’s just a precaution,’ says Coulson, and his voice is artificially soothing in a way that makes Steve want to break things.

‘It’s ludicrous,’ shouts Steve, scrubbing a hand through his hair in frustration. ‘You need security – fine, I get that. I’ll be security.’

‘That won’t be necessary.’

‘It makes much more sense to have me – one enhanced agent – rather than pulling several dozen off regular rotation,’ counters Steve, knowing it’s a good argument. But Coulson gives him that wry half-smile and shakes his head.

‘Why do you think you, specifically, need to be there?’ Coulson asks.

‘He knows me.’ Steve juts out his chin, stubborn and defiant.

‘We’ve seen no evidence of that.’

‘He knew me on the bridge. He knew me on the helicarrier. When I look into his eyes, I can see that he knows me now.’

‘That’s not enough, actually, and on the off-chance that it _is_ true, I can’t see that he’s reacted to you in a way that would make him more open, more tractable or less dangerous.’

‘I can vouch for him.’

‘You can’t,’ says Coulson, unperturbed, _right_.

‘Fine. If you won’t take it on faith, consider this: if I’m wrong, a lot of people could get hurt. Put me in harm’s way instead.’ Steve tries to stare Coulson down and, like so many others who’ve tried that tactic, fails miserably. Coulson hunches his shoulders, half-awkward, half boxer bracing himself.

‘You won’t be available,’ he says shortly. ‘We have another task for you in Alaska.’

‘Alaska.’ Steve’s voice is suddenly very quiet and very controlled.

‘You’ll be heading out there with Rumlow’s STRIKE team. We’re experiencing some low-level interference with a covert communications station up there, and there’s a worry that it may be sabotage. I can spare a small team, but I don’t want them to walk into an ambush.’ It makes sense, of course, Coulson’s plays always do. It’s not an elegant excuse, though; there’s none of Fury’s subtlety about it and it’s obviously a hurried plan. Steve feels a deep, burning pull in his chest that’s half anger and half the lure of duty. Coulson's leaning on his nerve, making him worry about his soldiers. It feels personal.

‘Are you punishing me?’ Steve asks suddenly.

‘Why would I do that?’

‘We had that— we were intimate,’ Steve says in a quiet rush. ‘And I’m sorry for my behaviour— for my lack of restraint. You don’t need to keep me from Bucky to punish me, I’ve already—’

‘That’s not important right now,’ Coulson says with his voice raised slightly, cutting Steve off. He makes a sharp hand gesture to emphasise the point. Steve rubs at his face with one big hand, hating his inability to step back. _This is not the behaviour of a tactician_ , he tells himself sternly, but knows all the while that he won’t listen. Then he says it; says the petty, insubordinate thing.

‘I’ll take this to Fury, Phil.’

‘You’re out of line, Rogers,’ Coulson snaps back, his veneer of calm cracking a little. ‘You _don’t_ go over my head and you _don’t_ question a direct order. You don’t have all the information here. You're not seeing the big picture. You have a job to do in Alaska, and you leave tomorrow morning. Get out.’

Slamming the door behind him is hardly satisfying – he can’t do it hard enough without breaking it – but it takes the edge off for a moment. Not having to look Phil in the face helps, too. Phil’s so gentle by nature, which makes the cruelty of his job all the harder to bear. _I’m always attracted to people with compassion_ , Steve thinks, hating his weakness, _and I always let them down_. He jogs down the stairs to the ops level, boots clanging.

Rumlow’s exactly where Steve expected him to be, meticulously laying out his gear on one of the long, metal armoury tables. He takes a real pride in his work, a trait Steve appreciates and shares. That’s not why Rumlow’s the man for this particular task, though.

‘Boss,’ Rumlow nods at him. ‘Come to gear up for tomorrow?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘Coulson briefed you?’

‘Not exactly,’ repeats Steve. Rumlow’s dark face flickers with curiosity. ‘I’ve got a favour to ask you.’

‘Name it,’ Rumlow tells him, and smiles his sharp, clever smile. Steve takes a deep breath, pushing the roiling knot of anxiety and guilt down out of his throat.

‘I need you to lie for me.’


	10. Steve

They are smiling when they come for him in the morning. He barely has time to complete his daily set of exercises before the door is grinding open. Suit is standing at the front, neat and enigmatic and holding a tidily-folded stack of black clothes. Suit proffers them to him, piled on his flat, open palms.

‘We’ll wait outside while you dress.’ He examines the clothes; soft, clean, stamped with the silver bird logo. There are socks, and strangely-rounded rubber clogs. Everything fits exactly, which unnerves him – an image of cold and ice and fear and body armour made precisely for him swims up into his conscious brain. He taps on the inside of the door. It swings open. ‘Let’s get started, shall we?’ Suit says.

They swing into formation around him, Suit to his right and a team of black-clad operatives in a loose circle at arms’ length. Assessment is effortless; body armour, weapons, height and reach, stances. Even unarmed he knows he could damage many of them. He would start, he thinks without really concentrating, with kicking out the obviously weak knee of the stocky man to his left, and use his weight to take down the man in front of him. Roll with the second body to shield himself, snatch a sidearm from the man’s belt and shoot the clearly-dangerous Suit next. There are snipers, though, ranged ahead and behind along the corridor. It’s not a wise choice. He himself has an almost uncanny synergy with a sniper rifle and he would not care to move with a target like this. It’s a waste of resources, a waste of skill. They are scared of him, and rightly so. The feeling that wells up in his chest is almost pity.

On the right edge of his field of vision, Suit is watching him. Not warily – nothing this strange little man does is wary – but with shrewdness and an underlying curiosity. If he were a betting man – if betting were more than a blurred concept to him – he might put money on the fact that Suit is watching his eyes. He fully expects that Suit could list, if asked, the order in which he observed each of his guards. He wonders if anything surprises the man. Until –

– when they round the final corner to the medical wing, the big blond man is standing in the middle of the hallway in a red and blue suit. His legs are planted firmly apart, his arms folded; a shield hangs off his back. He recognises the shield, recalls it’s heft, the impact into his metal palm.

‘Steve,’ says Suit, with a tightly-controlled edge to his voice. ‘What a surprise to see you here.’ Muscles – _Steve_ – looks straight over Suit’s head.

‘Bucky,’ he says, his sandy eyebrows pulled together into a little furrow. ‘Come on, pal.’

He stares straight back at Steve.

‘Designation not known,’ he lies, and savours the ripple of satisfaction as the man who is one of his captors crumples up his face as if distraught. _Good_ , he thinks, _underestimate me_. In the back of his mind, though, swims the memory that flickered into view some weeks ago and is yet to fully leave him: the small room in Brooklyn, the thin face with an earnest expression, and the name.


	11. Whole

There’s a large window in the medical wing and they seat him in its light, but not close enough that he can touch the glass. He allows himself to bask for a moment. The barely-there shadow of his reflection in the glass looks too pale, as if he’s hardly a person at all. Two big guards station themselves at each edge of it, hands on weapons. He fixes their position in his mind and scans the room, segmenting it as he goes and estimating distances automatically, until he could close his eyes and point to every man present. Suit is no longer here; he signed papers and then left. His absence feels oddly like a loss. Despite his many hours in a tiny cage, planning his freedom, Suit’s daily presence has become reassuring. The quiet, undemonstrative little man is dangerous, clearly, but his company is not unpleasant, as far as company goes.

The smell of antiseptic seeps into his consciousness and he feels suddenly cold, suddenly restless with anticipation. The man who brings the pathetic arm, the limp, flesh-coloured thing, is wearing a white coat. The scientist’s face blurs confusingly; he recalls a different man looming over him and a searing pain, a clumsy but lethal strike. Suddenly and intensely, he does not want the scientist to touch him. He does not want this pitiful facsimile of a limb; he could run, he knows, smash the window and be gone. If he runs, he must leave _his_ arm behind. He silently repeats his mantra: _I_ _will tear apart their cage and kill them all and take myself back, or I will die in the attempt_.

There is a minor commotion. Muscles steps into the ring of guards, breaching them with his broad shoulders and shoving through. This close, the smell of soap and leather is obvious. Very stupidly, he is not carrying a gun. When the man steps up to him, he stands; the guards shuffle, nervously, but Muscles waves them away.

‘Bucky,’ he says, reaching out. There is a tremor in his voice. He waves at the guards again. ‘No, I’ve got him,’ he says. ‘He’s just anxious. He’s been confined for a long time. He won’t try anything.’ Muscles speaks with confidence. His eyes are wet, though, and his full lower lip looks on the cusp of trembling. An enhanced soldier, yes; not a perfect soldier, not a Winter soldier. Muscles is incapable of repressing or concealing strong emotions. There is clearly past history. Increased breathing suggests nerves or arousal. Muscles wants to engage, wants him to reciprocate. Any child in their earliest training could manipulate such an obvious desire.

He leans in; forces himself to think of the man as _Steve_. The sense of sliding into duplicity, of acting a role, feels very natural. He’s done this many times before. He knows how to exploit other people’s emotions. A brief flicker in his mind; a memory surfaces of a woman’s blushing face, an easy mark. Her hair is – was – in thick blond curls, sculpted against her head in a way that he knows to be old-fashioned. He shakes his head and refocuses his attentions on the present. Now is no time to slip, not when fortune has presented him with an opportunity. He makes his face open and trusting, curls down his mouth.

‘Steve,’ he breathes, and slowly reaches up his right hand to pull them close. ‘Help me.’ Steve’s eyes are huge and luminous.

‘Okay,’ says Steve, ‘okay.’ Around them, the guards shift uneasily but nobody wants to defy Steve. They’re speaking very softly. From outside, he imagines it looks like intimacy. ‘It’s okay,’ Steve repeats, stupidly.

‘They took my arm,’ he whispers to Steve, ‘they stole it. They want to hurt me.’

‘No,’ says Steve, ‘no, it was a precaution.’ He doesn’t sound convincing – doesn’t sound convinced. His eyes flick away and down to the floor, because he’s not quite telling the truth.

‘They want me to tell them things,’ he says, making his voice tremble. ‘How do I know I can trust them?’

‘Trust _me_.’

‘You’re working with them. I don’t _know_.’

‘How can I make you trust me?’ Steve begs.

The Soldier forces down his excitement. Steve’s body heat is radiating towards him; Steve’s hands are warm on his shoulders. Their close proximity is reminding him of his flesh body. He is desperate to move, to run, to be free. Steve’s breath is sweet with mint. He turns his face up a little and gazes into Steve’s eyes, seeing the man’s face twist, blur, become thin and pale for a moment. He accesses the cold, fearful part of his brain that makes tears appear in his eyes.

‘Make them give it back,’ he says, plaintively. ‘My arm. Make them give it back.’

Steve sucks in a sharp breath. ‘I’m not sure,’ he says, and his accent is so, so familiar. ‘You’re asking me to disobey orders.’

‘Wouldn’t be the first time.’ He grips the dark blue uniform, scrunching up the silver star. ‘C’mon,’ he says, letting the accent show through in his own voice. ‘C’mon. Two Brooklyn boys against the world.’

Everything moves very quickly after that. Steve waves his long arm and the guards disperse back against the walls. He calls for one of the men in lab coats and speaks with authority. All trace of his emotionally compromised state is gone; people leap to obey. Only the Soldier can hear the tiny, birdlike trill of Steve’s earpiece, so only the Soldier knows that Steve is violating his orders. A scientist takes him by the right arm and hustles him back through the medical bay, out a side door and across a hallway. Steve follows right on their heels. It’s a laboratory. The guards cluster outside in a little group, like nervous ducklings. He sneers at them in the privacy of his mind. They are bunching themselves together beautifully, giving him a fine bottleneck to work with and—

Oh, there it is. There, lying as if discarded on a workbench. He dashes over, runs a lingering hand along the metal plating. The red star is intact; the delicate joints of the fingers undamaged. They have been trying to plug it into a computer with various wires, but of course they have failed. The socket is covered in little clamps and clips, which are the work of a moment to brush away.

 _Ohhh,_ he thinks, as the arm presses into its socket with liquid smoothness. Like lightning, he flickers his shoulder muscles and then moves his wrist through the activation sequence. The arm hums, and little tics of electricity spark through his shoulder, familiar and delicious, the feeling of wholeness, of being, of _working_. It’s the work of a moment to make himself complete again and then he steps back, pivots and punches his beautiful, silver hand through Steve’s throat. Blood sprays up the wall and Steve collapses with a short, sucking gurgle, his blue eyes wide with surprise. Already there is screaming and scurrying.

 _Yes_ , he thinks, _yes_.


	12. S.H.I.E.L.D. archival services, excerpts from file 'BARNES, J.B.', documents 17 Oct 2013

_Combat report #SIT-15628-BAT: SITWELL, J. M., 17 Oct 2013_

_Date of action:_ 15 October 2013

_Location:_ S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters

_S.H.I.E.L.D personnel present [in order of clearance]:_ COULSON, P. J., ROMANOFF, N. A., BARTON, C., ROGERS, S.G., SITWELL, J. M., members of STRIKE teams 2  & 5, members of sniper teams 1, 2, 4 & 5.

Personnel were deployed per advice of COULSON, P. J. (see security briefing #COU-53807-SEC). Initial personnel movements proceeded according to schedule. The first issue was the presence of ROGERS, S.G., who approached the security detail and attempted to engage with Barnes despite specific directives to the contrary. Dr Fields’ attempt to fit the prosthesis was then interrupted by Rogers, who drew Barnes into conversation.

At some point, Barnes managed to convince Rogers to move him to the research laboratory where the metal ‘Soldier’ arm was being kept for study. STRIKE team 2 took initiative and followed; it appears that COULSON, P. J. had briefly absented himself and both teams had assumed themselves to be under Rogers’ command in the interim. (I would recommend an inquiry take place over chain of command in the field, were there anyone left to benefit from its results.) Upon entering the research laboratory, security footage shows Barnes immediately activating the arm and killing Rogers and Dr Straczynski in quick succession. STRIKE 2 attempted to subdue him, but he was able to use the doorway as a bottleneck. We subsequently lost all six members of STRIKE 2.

STRIKE 5 were called in to similar effect; four of six were killed, one is severely injured and the other managed to escape and call for a lockdown. Snipers were unable to maintain a reasonable line of sight in the hallways (please see my earlier memo re: this topic in response to Coulson’s security recommendations). It also transpired that the sniper teams were not supplied with short range weaponry, thus nixing any chance they may have had to defend themselves.

Agent Coulson rallied Romanoff and Barton and made a bold attempt to detain Barnes before he shorted out half the building and escape through a service entrance. Romanoff attempted to talk to Barnes in Russian; he threw her into a wall but did not attempt to kill her. Recommend reviewing this footage with the behavioural unit in the light of Romanoff’s personal connections with Barnes. Following Romanoff’s injury, Barton rushed in and received severe head trauma; his neck may never recover, his hearing is permanently impaired. Romanoff discharged herself from hospital as soon as she could stand and is now AWOL. We do have security footage of her visiting Barton before her departure, and records show she downloaded a quantity of materiel about Barnes.  

Barnes is now at large, and we have had no reports of his whereabouts in the past 48 hours. It should go without saying that he is dangerous: ruthless, driven, possibly sociopathic and he cannot be controlled, contained or reasoned with. All field teams are to avoid him where possible in the pursuit of other missions. If he cannot be avoided, there is only one option left.

Shoot to kill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, folks, this is the last instalment. Thanks for sticking with me through to the end! It's been an odd sort of project and I find I have mixed feelings about the finished result. If you follow me on [Tumblr](http://lingua-mortua.tumblr.com/), expect a post-mortem on the writing of it in a few days.
> 
> Let me know what you thought in the comments!


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